There is so much bad news. I’ve not commented on much of it because frankly I’ve been suffering from a case of can’t-stomach-it-head-in-sandness. I’ve been feeling a bit over-sensitive lately, I’m not totally sure why – overtired? Hormonal? Seasonally Affected (bloody Tassie winters)? Bad news burnout? All of the above?

I know – poor me, call the waaaambulance. First world problems.

I decided, when I teared up while watching The Bachelor last week, that it was time to pop my head out of the sand, smack it around a bit and start paying attention. I was hopeful it might snap me out of my precious phase via a great wallop of appreciation and gratitude for what I have (and the nasties I haven’t).

It has, it’s made me hug my children more, be in my moments and feel thankful. But my heart is still heavy and I feel that sort of grateful-lucky-guilt. By some random lottery I am here beside my warm fire with a cup of milo while others are scared or cold or lost of sick or wounded or hungry or dead. Or worse, full of hatred.

I will report my findings to you in the next few days but in the midst of it I felt compelled to write a melancholy little poem. Sorry to spread my mood, I am immersed in ebola and war and rioting. Tomorrow the sun will be shining and I will do something more useful about it all – in some ocean droppish way. But for now, I am compelled to write this:

I know where the socks go –

They’re in the fitted sheets.

I know where all the good men are –

They’re out checking the sheep.

I know how to hide veggies in the bolognaise

I know how to cut ribbon so it will never fray.


I know how it feels to wish

For something you can’t have,

A perfect nose, a Porsche, a first

Class seat, a Prada bag.

I know the pain of traffic jams when you are really late.

Or when you have a pimple, a cracked heel, an awkward date.


I know how it feels when your

Kids won’t eat their greens

Or when you shrink your cardie,

Dent cars or split your jeans.

I know how it is to hate your hair or bang your head,

And the total utter horror of a spider in your bed.


But I don’t know, I don’t know

What to do for you

I don’t know how to make you safe

And I cannot undo

The pain, the loss, the hatred,

Or how to stop the wars,

I only know these little things

That are no use at all.

Categories: Stories & Poems

Tags: , , , ,

5 replies

  1. Love your pieman, Meg! Know how you feel, such horrible stuff going on in the world!

  2. wonderful poem Meg…….me too. xx Emilie in Berlin

    Sent from my iPad


  3. I hear you Meg Bignell, I hear you…
    Johnny F

  4. I don’t know either, Meg. I share your bewilderment.

  5. OMG…have you had a camera following me for the last 6 week………….I could cut and paste that as my post without changing a word, except I don’t watch the Bachelor……

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